


Winter Red Snow

by Robin_Mask



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drama, Friendship, Humor, Identity Issues, M/M, Nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-25 00:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2602196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Mask/pseuds/Robin_Mask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was lonely at the top. The only memories left were ones of blood and decay, of pain and death. Ivan wanted - needed - to create new memories. He needed friends. He needed understanding and support. If only he could find someone willing to become one with Russia . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Red Snow

# Winter Red Snow

 

“This is nice, _da_?”

 

Ivan smiled warmly at the sight of the bickering men.

 

The meeting room was bright today, it was as if the sunlight had found happiness in their presence, and the warm glow gave Ivan a sense of peace. It was nice to be in a place that had blue skies and green fields, a place of so many colours . . . it made Ivan feel as if he were living the life of someone else. He could almost pretend that he could smell the sunflowers and feel the grass beneath his bare feet . . .

 

In the meantime there were Arthur and Francis arguing vehemently in a corner, each man growing more and more aggressive and violent as time passed, all whilst Alfred stood on the sidelines and whooped for them to carry on. Kiku seemed to be engaged in a great debate with Ludwig, the two men acting so jovial it was as if they were great friends indeed! Feliciano sat in a far corner with a small cat. It was quite adorable, but Ivan could not help but find it somewhat of a nuisance, especially when such a cat was far inferior to the nations around it. Ivan knew he could survive a harsh winter, but a cat could not. Why the cat deserved love was beyond understanding.

 

“It reminds me of a happier time. It must be nice to not be alone.”

 

“M-maple! You are sitting on me again!”

 

“Huh? Oh, I am very sorry. I did not realise that you had sat down.”

 

Ivan stood up in a rather slow manner. It seemed that his chair had been most comfortable for a reason, because beneath him sat the man with the same face as America, the face that he so very much wanted to hurt. He refrained from violence, however, because he knew that Canada was a very kind man and a very close neighbour, but that still did not make looking at such a face any easier. He wondered if it would be impolite to sit back down again and ignore Mathieu.

 

“T-they are only arguing anyway,” Mathieu said as he leaned forward and gasped for breath. “It doesn’t remind me of a happier time at all. It just reminds me of bickering and fighting for fighting’s sake.”

 

“But isn’t it better to fight for fighting’s sake, that for a real reason? Hmm?”

 

There had once been a time when he had been surrounded by people, but those people had only ever sought to hurt him . . . even when he had wanted nothing but friendship, even when he had saved the life of the Teutonic Knights, they still wanted only to hurt him or evade him. Even the wild hamster had shunned him. It was a very special kind of loneliness to feel alone when surrounded by people. There were not many nations like him . . . Britain perhaps, or Japan . . . although they hated him.

 

He remembered the times in his history when people had reasons to fight. He remembered the blood that covered his hands and the metallically iron smell that pervaded his senses, and he remembered how broken his body had felt when his bosses had asked him to use his strength for the ‘greater good’. He remembered the darkness and isolation. He remembered how his sisters walked away, how the Baltic nations left, how America directed anger towards him . . . all as the dark memories took over and General Winter strove to take away his last few hopes, his last few dreams of sunflowers and warm fields. He remembered the real smile being lost to the fake smile. The face became a mask.

 

It was hard to know what was real and what was not, but Ivan enjoyed fighting for pointless reasons. It was a test of strength and skill, but it was also a reminder that there was nothing truly serious at stake, and – as such – there was nothing to be lost and no bad memories to gain. One could only bicker with one that a person was close to, because indifference never led to bickering and hatred could only lead to war. If one had someone to bicker with then they were not alone and that person cared enough to bicker. Ivan wanted that.

 

“It is nice when they fight. I like it when Britain hits France on his head, but it would be nice to see some blood. I think the red would be very pretty with Francis’ yellow hair. It would be like strawberries and custard, _da_?”

 

“M-maybe? I – I think I better go over there now . . .”

 

“I understand. You do not wish to become one with Russia.”

 

“I-it’s not that! I just . . . I have work to do. Maple hockey! I-I’ll be right back!”

 

Ivan watched as Mathieu scooted away to a far distant part of the room. He sat down at once – invisible to the room at large – and began to pull out large files and documents, such a studious man! It was rather admirable, so much so that Ivan was _sure_ that if the meeting had officially begun – and that Germany were not distracted by his debate with Japan – that the tall Germanic nation would have used Canada as an example of how to act. If only he were not so strange as to run away from someone who was acting in such a non-aggressive manner . . . very odd.

 

_Maybe I shall go and keep Mathieu company. He would like that._

 

The rather large man collected his belongings and at once moved to sit by Mathieu. He placed his belongings on the table beside the younger man: a briefcase, a coat, a black folder, and a long sunflower with its stem wrapped in white paper. He sat down next to Mathieu and saw the young nation jump as if startled, which again seemed rather odd. He reminded Ivan of the Baltic States. They seemed to have an unnecessarily timid disposition too.

 

Ivan lifted the sunflower in his hand and smiled at the sight of it in full bloom. It was a rather nice present from his sister, who – whilst unable to attend the G8 meetings – had accompanied him to England for the duration of his stay. There had been days, long ago, when Ukraine had nurtured him and mothered him, and her presence reminded him of those sweeter and kinder times . . . she was family to him. There was pain in his life, great pain, but with Ukraine around there would always be moments when he could pretend that pain had gone away, because she would protect him and keep the horrible and dark memories at bay. It was sweet that she still gave him things. Could it be possible that she hadn’t forgotten him at all?

 

“Do you think this flower felt pain when it was picked?”

 

“P-pardon?”

 

Mathieu seemed to star rather hard, with wide eyes, at the flower that now sat in Ivan’s grip. Ivan stared at it with a hard kind of gaze, one that spoke of adult amusement and a childlike curiosity. His large, thick fingers were firm against the delicate stem of the flower, so much so that even an iota of strength would surely destroy the stem completely, but likewise such a firm hold was protective. It was safe. The flower could not fall from his grip, nor could another steal it. The flower was safe for as long as he held it.

 

“I think it must feel great pain,” Ivan said coolly. “My little Lithuania felt pain every time he was whipped, but it made him so much more beautiful, just like my flower. It makes me sad to think that things must suffer to be appreciated. It is as if beauty stems from pain. This is sad, is it not?”

 

“You hurt Lithuania?”

 

“ _Da_! There was one time I forced him to wear a maid’s outfit and whipped him bloody. Belarus used to break all his fingers one by one, too. It is normal, is it not? I was alone and no one would be one with me, so my bosses said to make them.”

 

Ivan ended his statement with a slightly rising tone, as if to indicate a question. What he sought more than anything was validation, proof that his actions were normal, because if Ivan were normal then it could not be his fault that he were completely alone. The past had long since left him, but it had left behind memories of the penetrating cold and the terrifying isolation, memories of how – in spite of how he tried – everyone had hated him or sought merely to hurt him . . .

 

In time force had been the only motivating thing that he had. He was not sure what made people wish to become friends or to stay as friends . . . Ludwig received nothing from Feliciano but headaches and stress, Alfred only gave to Arthur mixed messages and cold words, and Antonio’s only reward from Lovino was abuse and heartbreak. It could not be love that brought people together, else why would such men stay friends with people that hurt or degraded them in such a way? It seemed that kindness did not a friendship make. If that were the case then Ivan would have to _make_ people be his friends, but that did not seem to make them smile. He did not understand it.

 

“It is strange,” Ivan said sadly. “Arthur hits Francis when he does not act as he should, and I have seen Alfred often hurt you when he plays physical games. It is normal to hurt someone to make them act as you want, is it not? It is also normal to hurt friends, because otherwise they will not be your friends. So I have to wonder that why it is that no one likes me. I have been a very good friend.”

 

“I think it’s because you’re not supposed to hurt your friends, maple leaf!” Ivan saw Mathieu give a shudder and smiled at his weakness. “The examples you gave were all playful or unintentional, they were forgivable . . .”

 

“But what of that time you made America cry by yelling at him for over an hour? That was intentional, was it not? Then there was that time when England and France put ridiculous demands upon China until he was forced to revolt. I think I also remember Japan once stabbing China in his back, so that a scar remained.”

 

The look in Mathieu’s eyes was very hard for Russia to comprehend. It was not quite the fear of Lithuania, or the desire of Belarus, or even the mutual understanding sometimes shared with China. His skin had paled, but his eyes had softened and narrowed in a very strange way, and – when Russia looked closely – he could see that his mouth had pulled into something similar to a smile. It was also odd how his hands had clenched a little, but not with the tension of anger . . . Ivan wanted to know what it was that Mathieu felt, but something told him that it was best not to ask. He would likely not appreciate the answer.

 

“People sometimes fight,” Mathieu explained. “I think people are willing to overlook bad behaviour though when the other person proves they are sorry and will make amends, especially when usually they are friendly and nice. If you hurt people all the time then that’s harder to forgive. There are no nice memories to ease the bad.”

 

“They do not play nicely. We can not forgive children who do not play nice.”

 

“T-that! That’s why people don’t want to be your friend!”

 

Ivan gave him a cold smile and stared hard upon him. What he had spoken had been the truth, had it not? Why would the truth cause people not to wish to be his friend? It was a matter of fact that those who could not play nice could not be forgiven, and that had caused many of his people to be executed in the days of yore, for revolutionary and anti-government behaviour was not acceptable. If they spoke out against such a perfect country, then they must be mentally unsound . . . if they only became one with Russia they would have much better lives . . .

 

_Do not have a hundred roubles; instead have a hundred friends._

If Russia had as many friends as his ancient proverb, he would be happy indeed. He wanted people to share in his sights and discoveries with, because the world was a very small place when you had no one to share it with. It did not matter if the Grand Canyon was awe-inspiring, or if the Eiffel Tower was truly romantic, or if the Taj Mahal were beautiful, because without someone to share those thoughts with . . . it was as if those thoughts had not existed at all.

 

He remembered on one of Japan’s cartoons that a character had said ‘it is only when other people see us, _acknowledge us_ , that we can only then to truly begin to exist’. It felt that without an impact on the world around him – without leaving a mark – that his existence was empty and pointless. During the Great Depression the world had fallen into great pain, but Russia had survived . . . he had survived because he had cut himself off from the world. The world had made new relationships out of necessity, they had strengthened bonds out of shared understanding, and they had grown stronger from a need to endure and survive. Russia had been alone. He had not even been able to share in his joy. No one cared.

 

“Then tell me what I am to do?”

 

“I – I can’t tell you that, but maybe if you stop telling America that the heart that falls out your chest belongs to someone else, so he stops thinking you’re a serial killer . . . or maybe if you stop hitting on Lithuania and threatening to hurt him, so that Poland doesn’t feel so antagonised . . . oh, I know! You could also stop turning up to meetings all bloody and bruised, that really disconcerts people!”

 

“That is a lot to remember.”

 

It sounded a little like nonsense to Ivan. It was as if Mathieu were trying to confuse him by telling him lies, but there was often method in madness, was there not? It reminded him of an old riddle in which a series of repeated sounds could be made to make the sentence ‘the stake next to the bell’. What if – despite how pointless it sounded – by doing as Mathieu suggested he could somehow get people to become his friends and to enjoy his company?

 

It would be nice to make friends, even if he had to obey very strange rules in the process. When he had hurt Lithuania, Lithuania had stayed with him. When he had forced Belarus and Ukraine to live alongside him, they had . . . albeit a little _too_ willingly on Belarus’ side. No one had ever _chosen_ to be his friend before, but perhaps that also meant that no one was _really_ his friend. If he obeyed these rules, would it mean that people would willingly come to his side? He wanted someone to greet each day and share his dreams with, someone who would listen to him and make him forget the past. He wanted to forget that he was unloved. He wanted to pretend that he was just like everyone else . . . _needed_.

 

“Would you be my friend?”

 

Ivan turned to Mathieu and presented him with the sunflower. He only hoped that Belarus would not see the flower and know that Ivan had given it to him, simply because no one was allowed to hurt Ivan’s friends but Ivan. If Mathieu were to be his friend then he did not want anyone else hurting with him. Ivan did not want to share his toys with anyone else, especially those that would willingly be his friend and would so honestly help him in accumulating more.

 

“I – I suppose we could be friends, maybe?”

 

“Ah, that is good, _da_!” Ivan handed him the sunflower with a smile. “Your cheeks have become so red, but your skin is so white. It reminds me a little of the winter snow when blood is spilled upon it . . . so pretty!”

 

“Thank you? I think?”

 

“We are now one. I am happy!”

 

Ivan thought he saw a small wince upon Mathieu’s face, but that could not be right. Friends did not wince when they saw friends! They had so very much in common, because they both had large countries with very cold places, and their borders nearly touched in places, unless one looked at a British map . . . the British always thought themselves centre of the world! It was a sad thing. It meant that Canada and Russia no longer touched, but – Russia thought – at least the British had the Western world on the West, rather than the East. The Britons were amusing.

 

Now Ivan could sit beside his friend just like their countries sat beside one another on a globe! It boded well. Now they could be one forever, their countries joined by a mutual and consensual relationship, and Ivan would not have to be alone when the winter struck and the cold drove him into madness. It just seemed very odd that Mathieu did not seem as happy as Ivan. Why did he seem afraid? He was after all . . .

 

“One with Russia!”

 

 


End file.
